


Sweet Nothings Taste Like You

by followingthelightoftheluna



Category: Kingsman (Movies), Kingsmen: The Golden Circle
Genre: Brief Scene of Sexism, F/M, Female Reader, Misogyny, no y/n, workplace sexism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-30
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:06:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27276967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/followingthelightoftheluna/pseuds/followingthelightoftheluna
Summary: Reader is the new head of Archives & Research at Statesmen. During those ten months, she’s gotten particularly close with Agent Whiskey (who in my head chugs his respect women juice). The annual Statesmen Gala arrives, providing the perfect opportunity to say everything that’s remained unsaid between you two when a horribly sexist Junior Agent decides to ruin the moment in an awful way. His words threaten the delicate relationship you have with Whiskey, forcing you to confront how you really feel.
Relationships: Agent Whiskey/Reader, Agent Whiskey/You, Jack Daniels x Reader, Jack Daniels x You, Jack | Whiskey (Kingsman)/Reader, Jack | Whiskey (Kingsman)/You, female reader - Relationship
Comments: 8
Kudos: 120





	Sweet Nothings Taste Like You

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I had this sitting in my drafts for a while, unable to find the right inspiration to come finish it. But then “Pink + White” by Frank Ocean came on shuffle and that’s all she wrote. I’m very proud of this and sincerely hope you enjoy it. Special and heartfelt thanks to tiffdawg for reading this at 3 am after a long day at uni and sending me sweet words of reassurance. She’s an angel from above & I’m blessed to know her.

With the click of a mouse, the report that’s been giving you a hard time is finally sent off, now somebody else’s problem. Exhaling a deep sigh of relief, you slump back into your chair. Glancing over at the pile on your desk, you see that it’s one down and … a lot more to go. Considering how shockingly bad that last one was, it was shaping up to be a long day. But that was the life of the head of Research & Archives at Statesmen. Your duties included not only assisting with all the reconnaissance and research needs of the agents, but to also review the post-op reports before they’re filed away. The latter habitually proved to be the most stressful part of your job; ironic considering you occasionally saw dangerous action in the field. 

That’s not to say you didn’t enjoy your job. In fact, you loved the freedom and support that Statesmen gave you in your role, which manifested itself both in verbal praise and budget increases. Considering you joined the Agency almost ten months ago, the amount of success your department has seen is quite impressive. This didn’t come without hard work; the last few months have been grueling, pushing you to limits you didn’t know you possessed. You not only had grown as an agent and professional, but had grown into the woman you’ve always dreamed you could be. For the first time in years, you felt comfortable and confident in your own skin. 

This newfound confidence also helped blossom close relationships with many of your Statesmen colleagues and fellow agents. Initially a bit reserved at work, it took some time coming out of your shell. But it came as a surprise to everyone when you and Agent Whiskey started to become close friends almost immediately. Initially hesitant to get close to a man filled to the brim with cockiness and swagger, it quickly became apparent that this was partially an act, meant to further his infamous reputation as a flirtatious womanizer. The underlying warmth and charm, however, was all Whiskey, and once you saw this he became more endearing. His strong aura of confidence wasn’t completely unfounded. Not only did he practice for hours on end with the various weapons Statesmen had to offer, he also put in the time doing extra reconnaissance and research for every mission he was assigned. Even though you and your team prepared thorough dossiers, Agent Whiskey spent hours in the archives making sure every angle was covered. Most people didn’t see this side of him, choosing to see the flirtatious cowboy persona he strutted around the agency. So to those on the outside your companionship was a complete mystery, but to you and Whiskey it just made sense. 

Briefly closing your eyes as respite against the screen’s harsh glow, you mentally start listing what left you have to do before you can call it a day: finish reviewing this batch of reports, go over the Berlin dossier one last time, respond to emails… 

“Well hello there darlin’, I see you’re working as hard as ever.” Jack said, coolly leaning against the doorway to your office. Opening your eyes, you slowly give him an appreciative once over as you take his outfit for the day: brown leather boots, tight dark blue jeans that are borderline work appropriate, and a white dress shirt underneath a dark blue-grey woolen blazer that features brown detailing around the shoulders. And of course, on top of a mop of thick, dark brown hair sits his iconic Stetson. You give him a warm smile as you reach his gaze. 

“Why of course, Agent Whiskey, someone has to do all the work around here.” You love lightly teasing him like this, enjoying the effortless banter between the two of you. You never felt uncomfortable around him or even unsure of how to act. With Whiskey, being yourself was as easy as breathing and every moment you spent with him was a cherished one, especially on a never ending day like today. 

“Oh, honey, you positively wound me. And here I so generously came all the way down to offer you company so you aren’t all by your lonesome.” Whiskey theatrically huffs and pushes himself off the doorway, dramatically making a motion to look like he’s about to leave. Playing or not, you’ve been craving his company, so you put a stop to the teasing. 

“Whiskey, you know I’m teasing. Come in and sit down, I was just thinking about you.” You briefly wave your hand towards the familiar set of chairs in front of your desk. Whiskey smiles and steps into your office, heading for his preferred seat. Getting up, you head towards the mini-fridge in the corner of your office and grab a bottle of sweet tea for Whiskey and a sparkling water for yourself. 

“Oh,” Whiskey’s eyes light up at the thoughtful and natural gesture, “thank you sweetheart. That’s awfully kind of you.”

“Of course.” Taking off the cap, you take a deep drink from the water not realizing how thirsty you are. You’re so engrossed in the bubbly drink that you don’t notice Whiskey’s eyes flickering from your lips wrapped around the bottle to your graceful neck, gently moving as you swallow. Licking his lips and roughly clearing his throat, he uses that as an excuse to take a drink from his own beverage. 

Finished with tightening the cap, you quickly swipe away any beads of water from your mouth before looking at the man sitting across from you. “What brings you down here today?”

“Well, darlin’, I was just making sure you got the memo about the fancy party happening this weekend.”

“Oh the gala? Yeah, I got that email a while ago.”

Every year Statesmen threw a gala to celebrate their achievements, both of the agency and the distillery. Ever since the email went out, you’ve heard wonderful and wild stories from your fellow agents about the party. It sounded like the perfect opportunity to wear a nice dress, drink the best liquor, and let loose with your friends. As a high level member of the organization, you were expected to attend. However, you were excited to go and weren’t planning on missing it. 

“It’s quite a big deal, you know, and everyone from the agency goes. Dressed to nines and all that.”

“Sounds like a wonderful time”, you say smiling at him. For a moment Whiskey looks uncharacteristically uncomfortable, searching for words that aren’t seeming to come as easily as he’d hope. He adjusts in his seat and then clears his throat once again.

“That I can assure you it is, darlin’. That’s why I’m here actually.” The rough hands gripping the sweet tea bottle alternate between tightening their grip to flexing nervously. 

“Will you…”

Whiskey shuffles once more and then suddenly straightens in his chair, wearing his characteristic charming smile again.

“I wanted to make sure that the prettiest woman in the agency would be gracing us all with her presence.” He smiles big and wide, eyes glittering with swagger and an unexpected intensity. “I need to make sure I reserve at least one dance with her before her dance card gets full.”

You’ve been the object of Whiskey’s flirting before, but this feels different. A good kind of different, though. Warmth blossoms all over your body as you beam back at him, unable to resist. Something about this moment feels softer, more vulnerable than what you normally have with him. Like he’s offering you something precious and is giving you the power to either tenderly hold it or toss it aside. Meeting his warm and heavy gaze, you see a man tense with sincere anticipation.

“You can have as many dances as you’d like, cowboy,” you say affectionately, “I’ll save them all for you.” 

Whiskey visibly lights up across from you, blooming with happiness before your eyes. You can’t help but feel the warmth spreading all over your body, all the way down to your toes. You’d do anything to have him smile like that again. 

“Well, now, darlin’ you’ve just made me the happiest man. I’d be honored.” He stands, motioning to the piles of paperwork on your desk. “I’ll let you finish up here. Don’t want to keep you from your work, then I might miss out on seeing you later. Don’t work too hard, sweetheart”, he says with a smirk. You haven’t stopped smiling since he walked into your office, but it widens at his playfulness. He does have a point; you tend to overwork yourself and not take any breaks. 

Though Whiskey physically leaves your office, the sparkling aura of happiness he brings lingers in the air. The warmth he brings settles over you gently like the soft sunlight at the golden hour. 

You float through the rest of the day and the next few days seem to pass by just as quickly. It’s almost as if the universe can sense your excitement for Saturday and is doing everything it can to get you there as fast as possible. 

Next thing you know, you’re waking up on the Saturday of the gala and feeling breathless. The day you’ve been waiting for is here. And when did these butterflies get into your stomach? You barely slept last night, feeling a childlike giddiness at the thought of what was to come. And now it’s here. Twirling around your bedroom in the early morning sun, you imagine Whiskey’s strong arms around you. He promised you a dance, many dances in fact, and you can hardly wait to be held by him. Spinning around the room, laughter bubbles in your chest and spills out. Today is a good day. And it was only going to get better. 

You haven’t had a day off in a while, so when the time comes to get ready you spend extra time on your self-care and prep routine. You run a long, hot bath to unwind and break out a sheet mask that you’ve been saving. Lathering your body with all of your favorite lotions, creams, and oils followed by hair and makeup. Pleasantly satisfied, even slightly shocked at the elegant look you’ve managed to create, it’s now time for the dress. When you first saw it, the gown appeared to be black velvet, but up close it was deep, inky, midnight blue. The off the shoulder look and tastefully plunging neckline, coupled with the thigh high split in one side, made this dress the perfection combination of classy, sexy, and elegant. After you stepped into your matching midnight blue heels, you pulled out a simple diamond necklace and ring to compliment your dress, but not overshine. A simple black clutch completed your look. As you stared into your floor length mirror you saw a powerful, confident, and sexy woman. 

You are absolutely glowing and couldn’t wait to see the rest of your coworkers at the gala. Your heart flutters at the thought of Whiskey in a formal suit. He always looks so put together and handsome, but the vision swirling around in your head was positively sinful. 

You take a deep breath to center yourself, then you call a car and venture off into the night. 

Statesmen clearly spared no expense and wanted this to be a night to remember. Beautiful string lights were hung all around, washing the night in a delicate warm glow. A band and a crooning singer were playing all of the classic 50’s & 60’s hits, a departure from the country music you expected. Beautiful floral arrangements covered every available surface, their intoxicating scent drifting through the air. Waiters walked around with tall glasses of champagne and other hors devours. 

You strut into the room, bursting with confidence. The aura of power and sensuality radiates off you, giving you an extra glow in the warm light. Feeling eyes on you, you glance around and give bright smiles to your coworkers. Not wanting to hover at the entrance, you search for the bar and once spotting it, make your way over. 

“An Old Fashioned, please.” The bartender gives a quick nod and starts preparing your cocktail. While you wait, you turn so your back rests against the bar and take in the sight around you. It’s so nice to see your coworkers having a night off. There’s a lightness in the air that’s permeating everyone’s normally hard exteriors. No more stiff collars and professional masks, but warm smiles and generous laughter. Catching the eye of one of your friends, you give a brief wave before the clink of a glass draws your attention back to the bar, where a freshly made Old Fashioned waits for you. Walking over to an empty high table, you set your clutch down and savor the first sip of the drink. It’s warmth trails down your throat, feeling it settle pleasantly in your stomach. Already the effects relax you. 

“I was hoping you’d have a taste for whiskey.” The warm drawl sends tingles down your spine as you sense the man you’ve been waiting for behind you. Taking a quick sip of the drink and then a breath to settle yourself, you turn to face the man you’ve been waiting to see. Whiskey, simply put, takes your breath away. He looks devastatingly handsome in a beautiful black suit and matching bow tie. Deep, rich brown eyes seem to drink you in, but you’re doing just the same. Your hands would do anything to touch his perfectly styled hair, desperately wanting to reach out and brush back the rogue curl delicately fluttering against his forehead. One hand holds a drink, the golden liquid matching his namesake. He’s devastatingly beautiful. He’s more than a dream. He’s a man, standing in front of you, looking just as lost as you feel. 

“Wow,” he softly exhales, bringing his free hand up to rub his chin, molten eyes never leaving yours, “darlin’, you look absolutely stunning. You truly are the most beautiful woman in this room.”

You bite your lip to try to curtail the beaming smile and all the words you want to say but can’t threatening to escape your painted lips. 

“Why, Agent Whiskey, don’t you clean up nice. No Stetson tonight?” 

“Not tonight, sugar. Wanted to try something different.” He says this with a slight bashfulness, a rosy blush dusting his cheeks. In that moment, you feel the air shift. You sense that he did this for you, because of you, and you don’t want to remain in the space where you only talk around it. You need to let him know how beautiful he is, to show how much you care. 

Dropping the light teasing tone, you set your drink back on the table before taking a step towards him. His eyes widen slightly as you approach. Delicately reaching out, you give him enough time to back away if this is too much, if you were reading everything wrong. But, if anything, he moves just so, allowing your hands to meet his chest. Your hands caress his jacket lapels before you gently adjust his bowtie. Lingering a moment, you look at him through your lashes, meeting the darkened eyes gazing back at you.

“You look handsome everyday, Whiskey, but tonight”, you pause making sure you have his attention, “you look simply divine.”

Time seems to stop as the two of you look into each other's eyes. All that exists is your body so close to his. The intoxicating energy that being honest and true with your heart brings coupled with the delicious scent of his cologne makes your head spin. But his hands immediately settled on your waist, as if he sensed that you needed anchored to this Earth. Or maybe, just maybe, he too got lost in your eyes and the confession that slipped past your lips and the luscious scent of your perfume. Maybe you ground yourself through him, and he anchors himself through you. Whiskey’s hand moves to the small of your back, guiding you forward so you’re almost pressed up against him, when the unwelcome sound of another man’s voice instantly shatters the mood. 

“Why, Agent Whiskey, I didn’t think you’d come to a stuffy event like this!”

A man in a suit walks up to the two of you, bringing the moment you were sharing to a stuttering halt. Slightly shocked by the harsh reminder of your surroundings, that you’re at a work party, in public, and not alone with Whiskey, you adjust your body to move away, but Whiskey simply brings you to his side, keeping a large hand on the small of your back. 

The new closeness settles a delicious fog over you. He has taken over all of your senses; his cologne is all you can smell, his warmth is all you can feel. As the man finally stops in front of you both, your eyes begin to focus on him. You vaguely recognize the man as a Junior Agent from the current class of recruits training under Whiskey. However, you don’t remember his name, as you don’t recall him ever utilizing the archives for research like the other trainees, but his brash manner immediately raises your hackles. The man shakes hands with Whiskey, clapping him aggressively on the shoulder. 

“Agent Marks.” Whiskey smiles politely, but it’s tight and doesn’t reach his eyes, which hints that your gut feeling may not be unwarranted. The name rings a bell, but you turn towards Agent Marks anyway, waiting to be introduced. But he never even spares a glance your way. It’s like you aren’t even here. He even turns his body to speak directly towards Whiskey, blocking you from the conversation that he so desperately wants to have. Apparently, having some facetime with the boss outside of training is his way of making a good impression, but he’s being incredibly rude.

“You’re looking sharp, Whiskey! Doesn’t hurt that there are all these beautiful women here,” he leers, gesturing around the room with a sweep of his hand. “But what am I saying, knowing you, you've probably scoped out the place and picked out your next target already!” Barking out a laugh, he ends his gross little observation with a boorish wink directed towards Whiskey. You can barely contain your disgust with this man, silently glad you weren’t introduced to him. Whiskey’s hand hasn’t left the small of your back and at the reference to his womanizing reputation he subtly pulls you closer to him. You glance up at him curiously, but his hardened gaze is tightly trained on Marks. 

Marks downs the rest of his drink and noisily swirls the ice around. 

“Can’t get any decent service around here. They shell out all this money and still have the shittiest wait staff.” With this, he seems to suddenly remember you’re here and turns his slimy sights on you.

“Oh, sweetheart, why don’t you be a dear and go get me a refill. Bourbon on the rocks. And hey,” he motions to Whiskey’s drink which is almost empty, “get a refill for your boss while you’re at it. I can’t believe you haven’t gotten him one already! You better sharpen up, sweetheart, or some other pretty young thing is gonna take your place. Like it’s so hard to be a secretary.” 

Your jaw is on the floor. You cannot believe the absolute audacity of this man. _Sweetheart_? Your blood starts to boil and you feel your face get hot as embarrassed heat floods your body. Every inch of skin on your body is crawling at his belittling words. You feel so uncomfortable and grossed out that you want to scream. 

Meanwhile, Whiskey’s eyes flash something fierce as his patience finally breaks with the Junior Agent. The absolute gall to speak to a woman like that, his woman, let alone a superior at the very agency you work for blows his mind. The fact that he didn’t recognize you, let alone show you basic respect says everything Whiskey needs to know about this man. Whiskey’s grip tightens dangerously around his glass. He opens his mouth to speak, but before he utters a word Marks rattles his empty glass in front of your stunned face. 

“Hello? Anyone home? Well, how about it? Do you need to write it down? I mean, it’s not that complicated.” Looking to Whiskey, “Geez, boss, you sure know how to pick ‘em. I mean, she’s beautiful and all, but doesn’t seem to be so sharp in the head.”

With this dig at your intelligence some of your composure comes back to you. Straightening your shoulders, your eyes snap back to Marks. Too many times in the past, when faced with men like Marks, you never knew what to say. The words, the touches, the glances all wash over you and for once, you suddenly knew exactly what to say in the moment that you needed to. You reach out and take the glass from his hand, curiously staring at it as you swirl the ice yourself, giving a demure illusion of calm.

“No, Agent Marks, I do not need to write it down. I’m just utterly shocked that you spoke to a superior that way.”

“Whiskey hasn’t...”

“I’m not talking about Whiskey”, you murmur in a voice hardened with steel. Agent Marks needs a moment, but then connects the dots as some of the hot air in his body deflates. Eyes darting nervously between you and Whiskey, he shuffles awkwardly. 

“I’m not surprised that you didn’t recognize me, considering you never come down to the archives. Your test scores certainly reflect that. And so do your reports. Agent Marks, I don’t think I’ve seen such rudimentary and subpar writing before in my entire life.” Agent Marks stares agape back at you suddenly realizing who you are. Blood drains from his face, eyes again darting between you and Whiskey. But looking at Whiskey for support is futile; the man has hellfire in his eyes. If you weren’t by his side, if the setting was any different, he would’ve eviscerated this man on the spot. Instead he’s mentally cataloging everything he’s going to do to the Agent when he gets him alone. Whiskey’s hand has moved to your waist, gripping it in a death vice, pulling you tightly into his side. You aren’t sure for whose benefit it is; whether to give you comfort and to stop you from launching yourself at this man, or to stop Whiskey from strangling the agent himself. 

Looking Agent Marks dead in the eye, you let the anger rolling through you spill from your lips. 

“Not only are you an incompetent imbecile, but you’re a sad excuse for a man. How dare you speak to me in that way? How dare you demean the hard work that women endure? I’m appalled that you felt it was not only OK to speak to a woman like that, but to do it openly in front of your boss? I’m disgusted by the thought of how you treat women when there aren’t any eyes on you.” Taking a breath, you move out of Whiskey’s hold and take a step closer towards the now cowering man.

“I suggest that you enjoy the evening, Agent Marks, because I assure you, it’s going to be your last. Come morning, not only will you no longer be employed by Statesmen, but when I’m through with you no employer is going to want to touch your toxic remains with a ten foot pole.”

“Oh, and one more thing Agent Marks.” Taking one step even closer towards the man, you shove his empty glass into his chest and hold it there, pressing dangerously against the white of the dress shirt. You lean up to whisper into his ear and with each word that passes from your lips the more blood drains from his face, leaving the man a pale & trembling mess. Pulling back, but still pressing the glass into his chest, you look him directly in the eyes and channel all of the venom and pain into your final words. 

“ _I am not your sweetheart_.” 

The air around you thickens with tension. Adrenaline continues to pump furiously through your veins, your heartbeat thumping at a painful crescendo. It’s getting harder to breathe, your chest constricting with every aching breath. 

“If you’ll excuse me.” Head held high, you make your way through the crowd, desperately looking for a place to get air. You don’t look at Whiskey as you leave, because you’re worried your facade would crumble and you’d burst into tears. How humiliating. You’ve worked so hard since you’ve come to the agency to prove your worth and to show everyone you belong. That your department is serious and does good work. You wanted Whiskey to see this most of all and now you feel smaller than you have in a while. Spotting the entrance to a secluded balcony, you practically sag with relief at knowing you’ll have air and privacy. 

Throwing yourself onto the stone railing, desperate gulps of cold air flood into your lungs. Closing your eyes, you try to regain compuse and focus on taking deep breaths. Exhaustion settles deep into your bones as the adrenaline starts to sharply wear off. Shakily exhaling, you quickly wipe under your eyes to make sure there’s no smudging from the few escaped tears that you furiously tried to hold back. You wouldn’t cry. No, that cretin wouldn’t be the reason for your tears. 

“You’re OK” you breathe out, trying to steady yourself. _Keep breathing_ , you think, _you’re ok. You’re OK_. But all you can hear are his words ringing in your ears. The entire moment keeps fogging up your head. All you wanted was for it to stop. You just want it to go away. 

Suddenly, the soft exhalation of your name cuts through this haze like a knife. You turn to find Whiskey standing at the entrance of the balcony. Backlit by the lights from the party, he’s glowing and so beautiful. You find you can breathe a little easier, knowing he’s here.  
Momentarily forgetting everything, you take a second to admire his beauty. His eyes are intently staring at you, but with a softness. He gives you space, waiting for you to invite him in. You give him a slightly watery smile in return. The two of you lean against the railing, letting the cool air of the night envelop you both. 

He stands a respectful distance from you, but all you want is for his warmth to be closer to you. You want to wrap your arms around him and breath the safety of him in. But he looks troubled and wrings his hands, searching for words. A pregnant silence settles over the scene.

Whiskey releases a deep sigh then turns to fully face you. 

“Are you OK?” He asks with such concern and care it momentarily overwhelms you. “I’m sorry I didn’t say anything, I just…” he runs a hair through his hair, dishelving it, “I couldn’t fucking believe that guy. He’s been an ass in training before but I thought it was just the usual macho schtick these punks have. But when he said those things to you, I…”

Reaching forward, he gently wipes the lingering tears from your cheeks with his thumb.

“I’m sorry. I should’ve protected you. But you did a pretty good job of it yourself, sweetheart.”

It dawns on him that he let slip the endearment, and at that moment of realization his gaze hardens and strays from you. He then shifts as if he’s going to move away. Confused by his demeanor, you bring your hands to his jacket lapels to keep firmly in place. Softly stroking the soft material, Whiskey’s breath catches in his chest and his eyes flicker to your face. 

You proceed gently, sensing his unease. “What’s wrong?” 

He murmurs your name. “The last thing I ever want to do is make you feel uncomfortable, you know that right?” Meeting his gaze, you nod in affirmation. You’re still confused, so you wait for him to continue. 

“Those… words. Names. I guess they just slip out around ya and I … after what happened with Marks … I see how they can be taken a different way. And I want you to know that I have nothing but the utmost respect for you. You’re strong and kind and one of the smartest people I know. The last thing I ever want to do is hurt you or make you feel less than. And it doesn’t matter what I mean by ‘em, what matters is how you feel.”

His meaning starts to dawn on you. _Sweetheart_. Oh, _oh_.

“Just say the word and I’ll stop with ‘em. I’ll keep it professional from here on out, I swear. It would kill me to know that... god the way he called you sweethe-” he breaks off with a disgusted shake of his head, but then finds your eyes again. They’re shining with a pained earnesty, and you feel your pulse speed up. 

“Just say the word. I promise, I’ll never call you that again.”

In that moment, you feel your heart break. Everything clicks and you finally understand what’s bothering Whiskey. The terms of endearment he calls you. To you, they are sweet nothings. Harmless ways of Agent Whiskey letting you know that he likes you. The terms spill off his tongue and never carry the harsh and demeaning bite that accompanied them when they came out of the other agent’s mouth. Never meant to be condescending or belittling, but the scene with Agent Marks stunned both of you into reminding you of the misogynist histories behind those cherished words. Twisted and warped from the ugliness in the lesser agent’s mouth, the barbs stung, but didn’t poison the words for you. 

The finality of what Whiskey is saying hits you like a ton of bricks. All of those little nothings have meant more to you than so many somethings. Each endearment he offered, you took and tucked away into the softest part of your heart, tenderly keeping them safe and cherished. Secretly, you were yearning for a day when he’d say those words lovingly. Or groan them out in a fit of passion. Or whisper them with a quiet adoration, a soft nighttime admission. And now, it all threatens to go away. Now more than ever you need your courage. 

Stepping further into his space, so that you’re pressed chest to chest, your palm gently cups his face. Instinctively, Whiskey leans into the warmth with a sigh, before tentatively meeting your gaze.

“Oh, Jack,” you whisper his name like a prayer, the taste of it so sweet on your tongue. 

Whiskey’s eyes darken when he hears you speak his name. For as long as he can remember it’s always been Whiskey or Agent Whiskey, but never Jack. Hearing it float from your lips is the sound of salvation. He’ll do anything you say, give you everything you want, do anything to hear you say his name like that again. 

“Please don’t stop. It’s different when you say it. I love being your sweetheart. All I want to be is your sweetheart.” 

The world fades away, slowly muting itself so all but the quiet thrumming of electricity between the two of you can be heard. Whiskey’s eyes widen, your words hitting him like a blow to the chest. How’s he’s wanted to hear those words fall from your lips but he never dared allowed him to hope. From the moment he met you he was stunned by your intelligence and work ethic. And so your beauty shines brighter with every accomplishment, every moment at work in your element. Jack saw you from the very moment you arrived at Statesmen and he knew he was a goner. But he also knew you knew of his reputation. And as he spent more time nurturing his friendship with you, he allowed himself for the first time in years to imagine what it’d be like to be loved by someone. And each time you smiled at him or laughed at his jokes, his traitorous heart repeated the forbidden question over and over until it steadily thrummed with every beat of his heart.  
And now, after a moment of such pain, he hears you say you want to be his sweetheart. 

That you want to be _his_. 

Breathing out your name, Whiskey cups your face in his hands. “Now, don’t play with me darlin’. My poor old heart couldn’t take it.”

Tilting your head, you give a slow and tender kiss to his palm then look back up at him. 

“Darling, I’m yours. I think I’ve belonged to you for a while now. You’re such a good man, Jack, it’s impossible to not want you.”

Reaching up to cover the hands that cup your face, gently tracing patterns with your fingers, you capture his gaze. His eyes are molten, filled with emotion similar to the moment earlier in the week in your office. Except this time, you’re the one offering up your tender heart, waiting to see what the man in front of you does with it. Because it’s only right that you offer it up. After all, it belongs to him. 

“Now,” you whisper lovingly, “the question is, does this man want me too?” 

Jack pulls you into him and captures your lips in a fiery, desperate kiss. He kisses you like you’ll push him back and run away off into the night, never to be seen again. It’s the kiss of a man who’s afraid of the weight of his feelings for you; not afraid of the love itself, but afraid of the familiar newness that comes with it. That his head and heart are still capable of feeling and receiving this affection is a revelation. This part of him laid dormant for so long and to have it awakened, by the woman so extraordinary she could only belong in a dream, stuns him. And also awakened is the hunger. Still cupping your face, Jack kisses you with every breath he has. Your hands wrap around his shoulders and reach for his curls, tugging him impossibly closer into you where you stay locked in each other's embrace for a few deliciously sweet moments. Breathless, you eventually both pull back, leaving lingering and softer kisses on each other’s lips. Foreheads are pressed together as you both breathe in the cool night air and each other. Tilting his head, Jack presses a soft kiss onto the bridge of your nose, then both of your cheeks. 

“I haven’t let myself indulge in the idea that you’d find an old man like me any good. But that didn’t stop me from falling head over heels for you. Of course I want you too, sweetheart, it’s you. It was inevitable from the beginning.” 

Eyes meet as the music swells behind you. The opening chords signal a new song, something slower but full of romance. Of hope. Going in for one more searing kiss with the man you now call yours, you take his hand and tenderly press his knuckles to your lips. 

“I believe, Jack Daniels, that you promised me a dance.” 

“That I did, darlin’. May I?” His fingers brush over your lips before trailing down to your lower back. You both turn to leave the balcony and step onto the dance floor. 

“You may. As long as you promise me one other thing,” you say airly, feeling so drunk with love. 

Wearing his signature smirk, he warmly gazes at you. 

“Anything, sweetheart.”

“Don’t let me go.”

The music swells. The lights glow. Your heart beats in time with another’s, and for the first time in a long time, you’re ok. Your sweet heart has found its home.

**Author's Note:**

> A few lines from this come from the Nora Ephron classic “You’ve Got Mail”, so if you haven’t seen that film I sincerely urge you to do so. The gown I used as a reference is the one Taraji P. Henson wore to the 2017 Academy Awards. It’s one of the most beautiful looks that I’ve ever seen and it stayed with me, ultimately ending up here. I also used Pedro’s 2016 Golden Globes suit/look as inspiration for Whiskey’s formalwear. I think that’s one of his best red carpet looks. I also listened to “Lamb’s Wool” by Foster the People & “Under the Blue/Take Me In” by Hayley Kiyoko during the editing process and those definitely influenced the mood. As always, any feedback is welcome! Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed it. :)


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